Suspicions
by Armelle-Madeline
Summary: Lucius Malfoy's imprisonment in Azkaban meant life as Head Boy for Slytherin Draco became a joke - but his desire for unconfrontation leads the trio to think he's a spy. Hermione investigates, only to find herself drawn to the arrogant Slytherin prat
1. Default Chapter

A/N: Set in book seven, during the war with Voldemort. Backstory – after the sixth year, Lucius Malfoy, along with other, previously undiscovered, Death Eaters, was taken to Azkaban.  
  
"I don't get it," Harry Potter said finally, laying his quill down on his piece of parchment, and frowning, puzzled. "He's up to something." Hermione sighed, irritated, and allowed her quill to drop too.  
  
"Who?" she asked, looking in his line of sight. The library was filled with people; it was the first really wet day of the term, and homework was beginning to pile up. The younger years were clustered around fires in their common-rooms, but the older people up the school were stationed in the library, hoping that the enforced quiet would also force them to actually work.  
  
The figure Harry was looking at was instantly recognisable, however. The boy in question was bent over a piece of parchment, surrounded by textbooks. His white-blond hair was long, and tied back neatly, falling over the collar of his robes. The Head Boy was, as usual, working quietly and studiously. He was also Malfoy, which made it very odd.  
  
How Malfoy had managed to become Head Boy was, in Hermione's opinion, a sad example of Ron not bothering enough. Harry had spent exam time, again, knocked out in the hospital wing, and without the grades to back it up, he wasn't Head Boy. Ron hadn't done as well as Malfoy had in the exams, the Slythrin pulling exam results miraculously out of thin air, so he wore the Head Boy badge. Truth be told, she spent a lot more time in Gryffindor common-room rather than the private common-room the Heads shared than she would've done.  
  
"Harry, he can't do anything," she said, shaking her head. "No-one's on his side. He can't be a bully with no-one to back him up." She picked up her quill again, and prepared to write the next bit of her essay on complicated Transfigurations.  
  
"But what if he's just waiting for support?" Harry persisted, scowling at his once arrogant arch-nemesis. "I mean, he could be the next Death Eater."  
  
"Harry. His father's been in Azkaban for two months now," Hermione gave another exasperated sigh. "All the Slytherins who have Death Eater connections have been routed out. Dumbledore would hardly have let Malfoy come back to Hogwarts if he was a Death Eater, would he?" she snorted, derisively. "He knows everything about the intelligence from the Order. And anyway, he's the only wizard You-Know-Who is afraid of. _Draco Malfoy_ isn't really going to pose a problem."  
  
"Hello, Hermione," Ron stepped up to their table, and dropped another heavy book onto it. He grinned at her, through a thick fringe of red hair. "There you go. Madam Pince said she's only just found it." Gratefully, Hermione took the book, and flipped it open.  
  
"How was the patrol?" Harry asked, playing with his quill. Ron sighed, trying to hide a twitch of a smile.  
  
"Caught two fifth years snogging in Filch's cupboard," he said, sounding very tired. "Dunno why, it's hardly the most romantic place in the castle. There's spiders in there." He shuddered. "Nasty." He looked down hopefully at Harry's essay. "You two done, yet?"  
  
"I think so," Hermione said vaguely, adding a final sentence, and admiring the paragraph. "Yes," she said finally.  
  
"Excellent. Harry, you've got to come and show me that new move, I've been trying to practise it, but without the pass, it's really hard," Ron said excitedly. Shooting Hermione an apologetic smile, the boys hurried out of the library on the way to the broom sheds.  
  
Damn. Damn and bloody _balls_. Hermione sat back on her heels, and watched the pathetic fire she'd built go out in a little puff of smoke. She could use magic, that would work, but a part of her actually wanted to do something the muggle way. Sighing, she dug through the ashes to set up the crisscross of starter twigs patiently, and then lit a match.  
  
The door opened, and with it, another blast of cold air from the draught along the corridor. Malfoy bent down beside her, took the match from her hand, lit the fire, then walked away. Hermione scowled into the leaping, cheerful flames. It wasn't _fair. _  
  
She got to her feet, and walked past the comfortable couch silently, seating herself at a desk, and struck another match to light the candles. Malfoy seemed perfectly content, seated on the sofa, reading a book.  
  
"I could have done it myself," she muttered, glaring at the back of his head.  
  
"It didn't seem like it," he answered, not looking up. "And here I thought that dirty blood of yours meant that you could _do_ menial tasks, Granger. Tut tut," he sneered.  
  
Suddenly, the little discussion in the library, and her opinion of 'he's harmless' seemed a little over-hopeful. Hermione gritted her teeth. The talk Dumbledore had given them both at the start of term had been along the lines of, 'get along. Or else.' So far, they'd seemed to avoid confrontation.  
  
"Blood certainly hasn't seemed to help you," she snapped back. "One parent down, one to go, is it?" She shouldn't have said that. She really should not have said that.  
  
He turned, and scowled at her, his face white except for a dull stain of red spreading across his cheekbones as if he'd been slapped. He curled his lip in a sneer, snapped his book shut, and walked out, slamming the door hard behind him.  
  
She bit her lip, shuffling the paper on her desk. A niggling little thought had begun at the back of her mind, though. What if Harry was right? What if Malfoy was spying on Hogwarts? He'd always been an evil little git, so what if he was quiet for the moment? Probably trying to save his own hide. Hermione gave up all pretense of studying, her mind racing.  
  
He was Head Boy, at Dumbledore's right hand. What if... what if it had been set up? Lupin was back this year, but last year's teacher had been just as bad as ever, hardly able to detect a really evil presence in the school. Snape might've known, but Draco Malfoy was Snape's golden boy. Dumbledore was concerned with the Order – what if he missed Malfoy, right under his own nose?  
  
Hermione pressed her lips together, determined. She was the only one who could work it out. He didn't spend all that much time in Slytherin quarters, every time she came back to the study they shared, he was in it. She had to find out, her mind flashed to Harry. Having lost his godfather a year ago, he'd managed to fight back, getting happier as Voldemort's supporters fell back with each strike. She had to protect them.  
  
A/N: I promise a less exposition-laden chapter next time! Coming soon – Hermione and Draco argue, Ron and Hermione patrol..  
  
Please review! 


	2. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, it belongs to JK Rowling et all, this work is not commercial nor does it infringe on any of the rights of the owner**  
  
When she awoke, her eyes found the small piece of yellow parchment pinned to the inside of the cherry red hangings. She didn't normally draw the thick curtains around the dark wooden four-poster bed until it grew much colder, and the additional warmth was something she was grateful for, so the fuzz of sleep added to her disorientation. She stretched up, and unfastened the little silver pin.  
  
She re-read her own scribbled script, and felt her jaw set determinedly. She pushed back the thick red coverlet, and the sheets, and drew back the heavy hangings.  
  
_Draco Malfoy – a spy?_  
  
It was cold in the room; September had faded unnoticeably into October, and the first chills settled across the castle in this part of Scotland early on. She peered out of the high windows, across the grass to the grey tinged lake, the giant squid waving one tentacle miserably out of the water in a bizarre half-salute to the strains of pink in the sky signalling the dawn. She blew on her hands to warm them, and pushed her feet into pink fuzzy slippers, a very home-ish object in this castle of magic. Shuffling out into the shared common room, she knotted her thick bathrobe around her.  
  
She froze, her forehead creasing in puzzlement. The candles she'd blown out when she'd gone to bed were burned out completely, pools of waxy dribbles in the carved holders. The desk was scattered with bits of parchment, and a quill lay haphazardly beside a pot of black ink. The fire had been left to burn out in the grate, the ashes were blowing about on the hearth in the little draught blowing through the cold room, and stretched out on the squashy sofa, Draco Malfoy lay asleep, covered by a green blanket, his head pillowed on his arm.  
  
She looked down at him, bewildered by the decision to go to sleep in the common-room. It was far colder than their individual rooms, being larger, and the windows far more draughty and likely to rattle. Hermione looked at the small clock over the fireplace. Its face was intricately carved; the crest of the school delicately executed, a lion, badger, snake and bird intertwined, each animal marking one fifteen minute interval with a paw, or talon, or forked tongue. The tiny golden hands marked five thirty.  
  
He might be evil, but he was certainly cold, she noted. The blanket was wound tightly around his shoulders in a death-like grip. She watched him sleep dispassionately for a few moments, his breaths and the soft tick of the clock the only sounds in the room.  
  
His face was half hidden by his hair, but the arrogant, proud line of his aquiline nose she could clearly see. The twist to his lips was gone, in sleep he looked almost peaceful. High cheekbones that stood out; Malfoy never seemed to gain any real weight, she observed. He was pale, his skin almost completely white. Without the colour of his eyes, he looked like an etching in marble, or something.  
  
She bent before the fire, tucking her robe more securely around her to fight off the creeping cold of the castle in the dim morning light. She laid the fire quickly and quietly, then struck the match. A glow of pleasure burned as she held the bright flame to the twigs and it caught. She piled on a few logs to burn, and dusted off her hands, pleased with her achievement.  
  
Malfoy didn't stir as she let herself quietly out of the door, and allowed the portrait, showing a sleeping (and snoring) pretty young maiden dressed in a medieval-ish red gown, with thick waves of golden blonde hair, to swing shut behind her.  
  
/  
  
The water of the Prefects' bathroom was tantalisingly hot as Hermione slid into it with a grateful sigh. Pink bubbles floated up from the water and burst with a gentle 'pop' near the ceiling. The portraits began to wake up, with indignant grunts at being startled out of sleep, but Hermione ignored them, allowing herself to slip down into the water until only her head was out of it. She needed to think.  
  
/  
  
Hermione climbed over the bench to sit down beside Ron, and asked Harry, politely, to pass the milk. Chewing on a piece of toast and marmalade, Harry set the jug in front of her. She drizzled a little over her bowl of porridge, listening to Ron's excited discussion with Dean Thomas over plans for the Halloween Feast. Professor Flitwick had announced in Charms, the day before, that they were to learn the more tricky enchantments to fix the decorations in place. It would, he'd informed them, bristling with the brilliance of his idea, be a practical way of testing their ability. Unfortunately, this titbit of study-related news had no bearing at all on Dean and Ron's discussion. They were talking about the relative merits of the wizarding bands that could play during the Feast, and whether Dumbledore would secure the trio of Sirens this time.  
  
"I hope he does," Dean said, with a wicked smile, giving Ron a dig in the ribs. "That Cassandra..." He sighed happily, folding his hands over his heart. Ron looked indignant.  
  
"Oi. You're supposed to be getting over my sister," he ordered, waving his spoon in the air to gesture further. Hermione smiled, and looked further down the table. In the middle of a row of anxious-faced Gryffindors, discussing the latest news headlined in the 'Daily Prophet', and casting looks at the sparsely populated Slytherin table, Luna Lovegood sat calmly reading the latest edition of 'The Quibbler', whose disinterest in the War was legendary, except if people had interestingly shaped wounds as a result of it, or there was a story on whether Tom Riddle had originated on Earth or not. Hermione squinted; today's front page dealt with an Aethonon in Yorkshire that had been born with curly horns. Obviously it was a slow news day.  
  
"Mione," Ron poked her with his elbow, swallowing a mouthful of porridge, "D'you know who Dumbledore is hiring for the Feast?" He and Dean looked hopefully at her. She shook her head.  
  
"I think Malfoy and I have to do something about it nearer the time," she offered, absently. Harry looked up from his toast, and scowled.  
  
"Can't believe that prat made Head Boy," he glowered at the pot of marmalade. Anxiously, it scuttled out of harm's way, holding up a spoon as if to defend itself.  
  
"Git probably had Mummy and Daddy buy the position," Ron scoffed scornfully, tossing a glare at the blond boy seated at the Slytherin table on the other side of the room as he produced the oft-used reason the Gryffindor house had decided with disbelief could be the only way Malfoy had managed to get the place when his family's beliefs were well known in the time of attack. Resentfully, he poked at his porridge with his spoon.  
  
"He's not actually done anything, though," Harry said thoughtfully, pointing at the Slytherin table with the corner of his piece of toast. "I mean, he's said stuff, he always does," he corrected himself, with a frown, "But he's not actually tried to hex me in the hallways, or helped Snape torture me in Potions." He scowled. "It's weird."  
  
"Very," Ginny cheerfully spoke up from further down the table before Hermione could open her mouth. "You'll just have to find something else to think about, Harry. Who knows?" she shrugged, her eyes sparkling with mischief, "Maybe he's bored of winding up such easy targets."  
  
"Oi," Harry protested half-heartedly, swiping at her hands as she snatched one of his pieces of toast. "I'm not an easy target." The conversation broke up into friendly banter between the three, Dean drifting into the merits of Quidditch versus football with Seamus Finnagan, who had developed an enthusiasm in his local team over the summer.  
  
Hermione swallowed, still thinking as she got up from the table. She was going to have to watch Malfoy very carefully from now on. He'd been far too unconfrontational, and others were starting to notice it.  
  
/  
  
Potions wasn't that hard, Hermione discovered. Snape enjoyed to annoy and irritate those Gryffindors who were ridiculously inclined to take Advanced Potions. By pairing Harry with Pansy Parkinson, he'd already managed to annoy both of them, and Pansy's scowl made the unfortunate girl bear even more resemblance to the pug-dog that she was often compared to.  
  
"Miss Granger," Professor Snape's silky smooth voice, that signalled the arrival of an event that would cause him imminent pleasure, was very quiet. "You and Mr Malfoy, I think. Perhaps being paired with someone equally devoted to their studies will finally shut you up." He trailed one long white finger over a jar of pickled baby newts and nodded slowly, a smile curling the corners of his mouth.  
  
"You may begin," he barked the order suddenly, surprising the scattered students at their workbenches. Silently, Hermione noted down the list of ingredients from the blackboard, and the procedure times. She cast a sidelong look at Malfoy. Carefully, seemingly disinterested in anything else, his cursive script covered his own parchment. She laid down her own white-feathered quill, cast a withering look for it's own sake at his ostentatious eagle feather, and began measuring out ingredients. A strong hand closed over hers as she weighed out Jobberknoll feathers.  
  
"Much as I am loathe to touch you, Granger," Malfoy hissed in a voice filled with disdain, bordering on utter disgust, "May I remind you that you cannot accomplish this on your own? The assignment allows us both to learn from it, and I do want to pass my NEWT, whatever evidence to the contrary you, Potty and the Weasel have conjured up," he finished with a sneer.  
  
Slamming down a glass bottle of dried scurvy-grass, Hermione glared right back at him. "Fine," she snapped. "Then get on with it."  
  
There was absolutely _nothing_ unusual about Malfoy, and keeping an eye on him was going to be a pain in the arse.  
  
**Author's Notes**  
  
Sirens are common in Greek legend as being beautiful women who lured men onto the rocks with their song. The Sirens seemed like a reasonable name for a wizard singing group, and Cassandra is a classical name from the same time period, so I tied it in.  
  
An Aethonon is a chestnut brown winged horse found in England, found in the HP Lexicon.  
  
Jobberknoll feathers are used in memory potions, and scurvy-grass is used In befuddlement draughts. 


	3. Chapter Three

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or the characters of the world. They belong to JK.Rowling et al. No infringement of legal rights is intended.**   
  
_A/N: Well, although nobody seems to be reading - I continue.. If you are reading, please, please review._  
  
Draco allowed Pansy's hands to roam down past his waist with a languid air of detachment, trailing kisses along her collarbone as she did. Pulling away from her regretfully, the blonde looked up, puzzlement clearing her lust-clouded eyes.  
  
"Sorry, "he said, pulling his robes into a less rumpled state. "I've got to patrol the corridors this evening." Pansy pouted, regrettably, the facial expression was not remotely cute. He crushed the thought instantly, the relationship was not based on the relative merits of Pansy Parkinson; rather the position her family held. The Parkinsons were an old strain of purebloods, perfect to add to the Malfoy line. It had been his father's arrangement and the relationship cultivated. Pansy and his mother even got on fairly well, though Narcissa's opinion of Pansy's taste was not impressive.  
  
"I could come to your room later?" she offered, a hopeful note creeping into her voice. Pansy had managed to snag Draco Malfoy in their sixth year, something she'd found miraculous beyond belief, and thus was holding on tightly. He shook his head, kissing her lightly on the cheek by way of a goodbye.  
  
"Granger's been around all day," he told her, knotting his green striped tie more securely. "Wouldn't surprise me if she's in the common-room all evening." Pansy smirked, and wrapped her arms around his neck while kissing him firmly on the mouth.  
  
"You could always sneak into the girls' dormitory," she said in a rough whisper, twirling a piece of his hair around her finger idly. Draco disentangled her hands from his and stepped back.  
  
"Sorry, love," he said softly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Duty calls," he added with a twist of the lips at the irony. Managing to step over the mop and bucket with difficulty, and a narrow miss at the bottle of scouring solution, Draco extricated himself from the cupboard on the third corridor.  
  
The common room was empty as the giggling maiden, covering her mouth with her hands as her shoulders shook, let him into the place. The fire was low in the grate, leaping little flames still alight let him know that she'd already been there. The Mudblood. It was beneath him to share living space with the dirty little muggle-lover but what could he do?  
  
The candle-light was warm, throwing shadows into the corners, oddly-shaped. The portraits, Gregory the Mild-Mannered, one of the first prefects, and Katherine Longhorn, who had discovered a combination of doxy poison and Kneazle fur produced a solution of Pax Draught strong enough to convert some of Grindlewald's supporters, were sleepy. The background ticking of the clock was un-evasive, Draco sent it a fleeting look, ten minutes to eleven.  
  
The letter on the desk had arrived this morning, just as he was finishing his breakfast. He'd stuffed it into his pocket to read later, and forgotten it. His mother's elegant and flowing script was recognisable as he slit the envelope with a quick movement of his finger. The stamped black seal was broken.  
  
_Draco, As October approaches, my anxieties are growing. Your father left the estate in considerable confusion and naturally I have no idea as to the execution of such matters. Soon, my son, you must take up the reins of Malfoy Manor.  
  
Dinner with the Parkinsons on Thursday was most enlightening, I am so glad you have clearly taken your father's wishes into account. He will be most happy to receive the news that your engagement looks set to go ahead. I do not want you to disappoint him, Draco. That dreadful place will take its toll on him, even if his release comes as hoped. His plans for you were at the foremost in his mind.  
  
These plans remain a concern. Without Lucius to put into place the initial measures, and the disgraceful loss of standing we must endure, your decision must arrive soon.  
  
I expect your owl,  
  
Mother_  
  
He scrunched the parchment into a tiny ball and crammed it back into his pocket, dropping with a heavy sigh into the comfortable armchair drawn up to the fire and closed his eyes. The door opened, and without opening his eyes to see, he knew Granger had entered.  
  
She hovered. Bloody hell and a cold frost on Merlin's balls, she was _hovering_. He leant his head back, suddenly the pressure building up behind his temples was excrutiatingly painful.  
  
"Malfoy?" The gods, she sounded, timid? He opened one eye, and looked straight at her.  
  
"I can understand the desire to see what real witches and wizards do in their spare time is tantalizing you, Granger, but I'd appreciate the mediocre bit of space this common-room allows me take," he drawled, taking full relish in the white flooding her face as she took in the insult, that her teeth bit down on her lower lip so hard that she had to have drawn blood. She took a physical step back, her hand reaching for the wooden back of the chair and nodded barely perceptibly.  
  
"Right," she muttered, only just audible, and walked into her room, slamming the door hard behind her.  
  
Draco leant back against the cushions and sighed once more, staring morosely into the flicker of the firelight. If he couldn't deliberately provoke Potty and Weasel into the – so easily done – aggravation that was thoroughly amusing, Granger with her new habit of hanging about in the common room was a simpler target.  
  
His eyebrows drew together at the thought, and he sat up, the red cushion he had leant on unawares slid to the floor. Granger wasn't going to make it an obnoxious little habit of staying in this common room, was she? He groaned at the thought – the peace he had enjoyed for the first couple of months of term would be catastrophically shattered by the muggleborn breathing down his neck.  
  
For the first few months, she'd spent most of her time in Gryffindor Tower, which very likely resulted from the fact that _he_ spent most of his time in the common room. Truth be told, Draco shifted a little on the couch uneasily at the recollection, life in the Slytherin dungeons was beginning to be uncomfortable. With the majority of his supporters being children of Death Eaters, or purists, when the Order had made its presence felt in the summer, Slytherin had blaringly obviously lost a great deal of students. Those still in Slytherin were hardly fit to bear Salazar's emblem, he scowled. The common room offered peace, a degree of space and somewhere he could think.  
  
Snarling at the cheerful ticking clock, Malfoy kicked the cushion into a corner, and stalked into his room.  
  
A/N:  
  
The idea of a Pax Draught comes from the Latin, 'pax', meaning peace. Both Gregory the Mild-Mannered and Katherine Longhorn are invented. I thought some old Heads should grace the walls of the Head Boy and Girl's study.  
  
The curse Draco uses is my own invention. Personally, I'm not keen on the ejaculation, 'Merlin!' for a curse in the wizarding world all the time, so I will hopefully be able to come up with a few. 


	4. Chapter Four

  
  
She bit her lip. Going through someone else's things was not something Hermione Jane Granger did on a regular basis. But, she informed herself, pulling her robes around her and straightening up to her full height, if it was to save the world from an obnoxious little prat then Hermione Jane Granger would do it.  
  
She rifled through the papers on the desk. His eagle feather quill lay beside the inkpot. She snorted at the emerald ink; Malfoy's little obsession with his house colours extended so far that a psychiatrist would have had a field day. Hermione bent over to examine the pieces of parchment tucked neatly into a carved wooden letter holder. A single piece of parchment had been pinned to the wall, Malfoy's curved and flowing script marking off revision sessions under scrupulously tidy headings. She frowned. That was her idea.  
  
She pried out a bundle of papers from the very middle of the letter holder, and unfolded the first.  
  
"I didn't need to see that," she muttered aloud, dropping it with definite disgust at the description of what Pansy Parkinson was going to do to her 'blond lovey' with fingers, teeth and tongue. She flicked through the other letters with considerably more caution – breakfast was in an hour – and tucked them back carefully, having found nothing, except enough disturbing material about Malfoy's sex-life to satisfy the most extreme of voyeurs. Not – Hermione said silently, quite firmly – that she wished to know of anything she had discovered.  
  
She tidied everything back to how it had been, and adjusted her head girl badge, reassuring herself that she had almost vomited up bile at the surprisingly creative descriptions of Pansy Parkinson for the good of the school.  
  
Draco rubbed sleep from his eyes casually and yawned, pushing the thick book off his chest as he sat up, blearily looking around at the room. Realisation filtered dimly back into his mind and without thinking, his jaw set tightly. Another day. He pushed back the quilt and kicked the leatherbound book out of his path as he strode over to his trunk, and began dressing.  
  
He was surprised and a little resigned to see the Mudblood seated in the common-room, apparently buried in a book. He slammed the door behind him and smirked a little to see her jump and lose her place. Childish it may have been, Draco was well aware that Miss Granger could very likely out-curse him and unless he resorted to distinctly Dark magic, she'd know the counter curse to anything he tried. Thus, one-up-manship came through little ways he could annoy her. Nobody said being an arch-nemesis wasn't petty.  
  
Hermione gave him her best withering, 'you're idiotically pathetic' look with a tightly drawn scowl for added measures. She looked back down at the page, the black words crawling around like little animals before her as she fought for concentration. _Some of the best counter curses come from South Africa, where black wizards had to find a way to fight back when unfairly cursed in the Apartheid era. However, the development of the counter jinx invariably meant wizards sought more powerful and terrible curses and built in charms that went off when another wizard tried to counter the curse, invoking foot high letters saying something like, 'yah boo, you can't stop me', or such like.'_  
  
"I've been thinking," Malfoy's cold drawl sounded completely disaffected and bored, Hermione scowled at the book. Not, she commented acidly to herself, his being bored was different from normal. "We should start planning the Halloween thing. Dumbeldore's going to discuss it with us soon so we might as well have some kind of plan." As ever, anything that wasn't an insult came out of his mouth with a faintly mocking tone but Hermione was surprised at the sense he displayed. It Iwas/I true, if they didn't start on the event it would hardly live up to the hoped-for expectation, helping with the hostilities between seventh-years as they prepared to leave the school and commence careers.  
  
"So how shall we conduct this?" she asked, grudgingly, closing her book. Malfoy raised one blond eyebrow, regarding her haughtily from surprised blue eyes.  
  
"Well, obviously, Mudblood, you begin by planning it," he answered with icy sarcasm. "Forgive me if I'm being somewhat blunt, but isn't that the way most things are done? I don't expect you to have many ideas regarding the thing, planning the Weasel's birthday party in the mud-soaked hut of the overgrown oaf living in the forest isn't exactly on a par, but regrettably, you have an opinion on everything." He paused, looking at her with an expression that could only be described as 'snotty', "So you'd better get it over with and we can move on."  
  
Anger and rage seethed in Hermione with a power that surprised her. She felt her cheeks burn red and her eyes narrow, and spat the words as she said them. "Don't ever call me that. Ever. If you expect me to do anything with you as Head of this school then you won't dare ever address me like that again." "Ferret boy," she added, with deep loathing. Malfoy looked almost taken aback, for a fleeting moment she saw his eyes clear, and an expression of something bordering on respect, or shock flashed before the normal smugly arrogant look returned.  
  
"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Granger," he said mildly, with a scornful little smile. She raised her eyebrows, folding her arms defensively across her chest while willing herself to stay calm.  
  
"Oh? Why are you thinking about my knickers, Ferret boy?" she shot back, forcing an equally contemptuous smirk onto her lips, looking at him with disdain. "Don't know that I want you to think about me that way."  
  
"Trust me," he drawled sardonically, his lips twisting. "I don't want to think about you that way either. If I were to think about your knickers, Granger, you'd want me to. But anyway-" he paused at his desk to pick up his quill and slip it into his bag, "This little argument is so sweetly touching I feel the need to retch. We will discuss this later." His coolly arrogant dismissal was enforced as he closed the door to the corridor outside behind him.  
  
"Trust you?" Hermione muttered darkly, glaring at the door. "About as far as I can throw you."  
  
A/N: Still in character, hopefully! Next chapter, Hermione, Harry and Ron discuss the Ball in the Heads' common-room resulting in a small show-down when Malfoy discovers his privacy invaded by yet more Gryffindors.  
  
Can't tell you how much I live for reviews, so if you want 


End file.
